Talking Back, Part 2

I had, as usually, bought more than I meant to at the grocery store, and was just looking for a checkout stand that included an actual person, when I walked past the magazine display. 'Education' was the word that caught my eye.

On closer look, I saw the complete title was 'The Solution to Education,' splashed in a red ribbon on the cover of Newsweek. Behind it, written as if by a boy suffering old fashioned punishment, over and over on a blackboard, were the words 'we must fire bad teachers.'

It's such a simple solution, isn't it? And it has the force of research - the quality of a teacher can make up to a 75% change in the achievement of the kids with the same background, even in the same school.

And I've seen it. I've seen the kid that seems to be attempting to wiggle right off the ground in one class, literally bounce, smile radiating, from the praise of another teacher.

And like everyone who's read the New Yorker article or heard the This American Life story, I recoiled at the tales of New York's 'rubber room,' where teacher who have proved their unsuitability for the classroom sit all day, doing nothing, collecting paychecks.

But, as with most problems, the immediate solution looks much more complicated, close up.

What is a bad teacher, anyway? More to the point - what is a good teacher?

Take the wiggly kid. The class he likes better is science; language arts, not so much. Yes, the science teacher has a charisma that, perhaps cannot even be learned or duplicated. And he's a guy, and a coach. But teaching this student how to organize a paragraph is a much more daunting task than, say, helping him measure the volume of an irregular object. The first is abstract, and involves an ease with words that is beyond his third-grade level reading skills. The second involves measuring a water level, dunking the rock in, measuring the water level again. For a kid that learns with his eyes and body movements, the hands-on task is infinitely less frustrating.

Many teachers, too, are more effective with some groups of kids than others. I spend some time in an advanced language arts class every day. The kids are (well, mostly) very engaged in the presentation, discussion and implementation of every topic. Each time the teacher asks a question, several hands go up, and the kids usually arrive at the correct answer. She asks them to do a lot of writing, and they get it done. She fills up every second of the class with learning. Effective teacher, right? Yes she is. But I've also been in one of her less advanced classes. Chaos doesn't exactly rule there, but frustration does at least some of the time, both on the part of teacher and students. She's good. She isn't perfect.

The research that's been performed, shows that effective teachers establish classrooms in which the kids feel empowered but organized and orderly. She or he 'accepts and expands'- even a partial answer is accepted, praised, and built on to create the concept the kids need to learn. Important concepts and procedures are drilled, anchored, rehearsed, utilized. And kids' behaviors are shaped to the level desired through praise, structured rewards, and celebrations.

Teachers are largely evaluated on implementing these procedures. But, here's the crux. Although most of the time, this is what you do to get students to achieve and learn essential academic skills, that learning doesn't always show up on the most high-stakes measure of all - the state achievement tests.

My evaluations have, almost without exception, been stellar; I love the performance, the 'in the zone' aspect of teaching, and generally can keep a class engaged for the entire period, in activities that are 'standards-based' and oriented toward the most essential learning. But you know what? By the measure of the achievement tests, I stink worse than Stilton cheese. Because, I already know, the great majority of my kids will score 'unproficient.' Across the board.

But, you say, your kids have special needs. And it's true, they do. My heart gets broken every year about this time, as I watch some of my kids struggle, fail, and eventually largely give up on the state test. For some, learning the key terms in a word problem, that signal the desired operation (think 'less than' or 'how many more') was a victory - but none of those key terms are used on a state math test. Kids with Autism and Aspergers don't have the theory of mind that allows them to pretend a situation they haven't experienced - so the 'imagine this situation:' questions on the writing test are unintelligible. And some, like my student this morning, look over the test, decide it's too difficult, and simply refuse to even attempt it, because they don't have the emotional skills to handle taking a chance on failure.

I watch all this happen, and my internal dialogue is scathing. Fool, I think, you should've seen the question they're all stuck on, or have given up on, coming. You should have taught it, or something like it, directly.

I used to work with a special education professor who said, if your kids fail a test, 'you ain't taught it good enough.' I always liked that, but so often nowadays, I ask, what is it that I should have taught 'good enough?' Which of the hundreds of things they don't know?

Yes, my kids have special needs. But there are many children out there who are equally unsuccessful, but whose skills are just ok enough not to qualify for an Individual Education Program. How will we determine whether their test scores are the fault of bad teaching?

What, exactly, makes one a good or bad teacher?

Talking Back

Anybody who knows me wouldn't be surprised to see me on the way to work this morning, gesticulating to the extent my little Yaris will allow, talking back to the radio.

My friends and family would be amazed, though, by the identity of my unseen and unknowing communicant. Not Glenn Beck or Rush Limbaugh - though come to think of it, those guys I wouldn't even be listening to, much less bothering to talk to.

No, it was NPR.

Somehow this was parenting and education morning. First, there was a story about the impact of losing the hearing in one ear, especially for kids and their learning. It's harder, with just one functional ear, to locate and understand speech, and thus compels sufferers to avoid noisy, chaotic environments. I design my own social life partly around that particular deficit; but I understand that children and adolescents rarely possess the self-confidence and self knowledge to adjust similarly.

But it was Joanne Silberner's second story that incensed me so. British researchers, she intoned a little victoriously, have determined, through a longitudinal study, that kids who have behavior problems in school, complain of more pain and ailments as adults.

"Doh!!" is what I said back.

I hang with kids who have trouble behaving in school pretty much all the time. Every place I've taught, the educational environment has been leveled: there are top-level classes, called SAIL or IB or just plain advanced; the mid-level classes, and then the classes where much of the work performed is remedial in nature, and the kids almost all struggle.

This is based on sound educational theory and practice; kids learn better in environments homogeneous enough to give them learning at a level they need. And it's particularly true in middle school, where the more basic learners tend to also be concrete learners, and require concepts to be explained in terms heavily reliant on the visual and kinesthetic.

Note that word, 'kinesthetic.' Because that also means that these kids are often wiggly. And wiggly often translates to bad behavior. It's just that much more challenging for a kid who learns through body movement to sit still and listen respectfully as a teacher or even another student has his/her say.

And what that means is that the basic classes where I hang my teacher shingle are also the classes where the toughest kids practice their most challenging behaviors.

So yeah, I know a lot of 'bad actors.'

They include 'Jeremiah,' whose arms are covered with burn scars from, my guess is a failed attempt at making fireworks more exciting, though for all Iknow he was heroically saving someone from a fire. Jeremiah has a blonde buzz cut and uses baby talk to let us know we're boring him. He requires a personal invitation to put even a sentence on paper.

Then there's 'Paulie.' He too makes lots of noise, and works hard to announce it to the world that he doesn't care if he gets into trouble. He's got an engaging smile, and his hand is up whenever there's a question he can answer. He tells me he loves to cook, and wants to be a chef when he grows up. I think he could be great.

'Henry' is about a foot too tall for middle school desks. I've learned to let him sit in any position in which he's comfortable. Most of the time, he just talks out in class - and until I started consequencing him by making him stay late, he announced, five minutes from the end of class, loudly, 'it's time to go!'
It's a small thing. It drives you crazy.

'Nick' just came back from a few months' expulsion. Just in time for CSAP testing. He's still got that 'glad to be back' diffidence about him. He's feeling things out, smiling, ingratiating. But he got expelled for hitting other kids. Hard. And today, once he figured out that he could, he just put whatever occurred to him for answers on the test. Because he had no idea of how to solve the math problems, or because he just didn't feel like trying? Who knows? I'm not sure even he does.

Finally, 'Ellwood'. A gorgeous child that responds beautifully to praise and a kind smile. But bore him, criticise him, at your own peril. Oh, and you better let him stand up whenever he wants to.

So what do all these character sketches have to do with Joanne Silberner's report?

They've all been suspended for bad behavior. And my guess is, they'll all have futures challenged by health problems.

It was her conclusion that bothered me, though. Fix behavior problems, and you'll fix health problems, she said.

Nope. Not that easy. I could put these kids in uniforms, set up reinforcement schedules, punish the slightest misbehavior (assuming their parents would agree) and I'd get well-behaved kids. But I'm not sure it would change their futures one iota.

These kids, if they finish high school, and even if they don't, are headed for minimum wage, at least for a while. You ever work at those jobs? Repetitive, physically challenging, and exquisitely boring.

This is a combination practically guaranteed to cause physical injury and/or depression.

Many years ago now, I did a stint helping people with disabilities find jobs. The folks who had the hardest time? Those who'd been hurt, had a lifting limitation of, say, ten pounds, few skills, and were depressed. It was almost impossible to find a job that would match these people's preferences, skills, and medical needs.

So, what to do?

The government white paper entitled 'The Forgotten Half" was written over twenty years ago. It addressed the problem caused by American schools' neglect of kids who are not college bound. The authors pointed out that these students graduate from high school with few marketable skills and prospects.

With the advent of 'No Child Left Behind,' things have gotten worse. High schools have few to no true vocational programs, except for those with echt disabilities; kids like Jeremiah are left in the cold. We make noises about community colleges, but to get through even a two year program, you need more motivation and energy than he'd been given. Jeremiah will languish; only pure luck will keep him from a stint or two in jail.

Of the group I listed above, I hold out the most hope for Paulie. He knows what he likes, hones his skills at home already, and is stubborn enough to go for it. Henry will probably help out at his dad's body shop and may take it over someday. The rest of them?

Chances are, at 25, they'll have some pain and ailments.

Making It

I was coming up from the fitness room; she, down from the racquetball courts. Her eyes were even more impossibly enormous for the generous application of kohl, but I recognized her immediately. It was 'Ria.' A few years ago she was an 8th grader who'd somehow managed to appeal to everyone: teachers showered her with praise, other girls befriended her, the shy boys stammered and the bad boys flirted with her whenever they got the chance.

I got to be her teacher for a year, and in that year her reading level grew by 17 months, by dint of her own hard work (yes. I know in the last post I blasted exactly this kind of educational measurement. What're you gonna do.)

Thing is, she shouldn't have been so successful. She lived with her grandparents because both parents were in jail, apparently for many years. She had a significant reading disability, mostly because she didn't understand auditory input at all. She should have been failing everything; instead, she shone. Her father's an artist; she loved to draw, especially tattoo-like pictures of roses and pretty girls, which she gave away to anyone who asked. When she walked across the stage in the middle school continuation ceremony, I was one of many who jumped up to applaud.

I saw her again a couple of years later, and this time snapped a picture for my portrait series. It was a very different Ria. Her makeup looked several days old. Her clothes were ripped. I found her sitting in the hall, waiting for her little sister's teacher conference to end.

"My boyfriend's in jail now," she shared, elaborately casual. And then something about high school girls and fights in locker rooms. It was all very gang-like, and I thought, well, maybe she's getting ready to follow her parents' tracks. Maybe the next time I see her, she'll have a toddler in tow, and cigarettes on her breath, and the light in her eyes will be stolen by the crudity of her life.

I was wrong. Ria, this afternoon, wore skin-tight, shiny lime jeans and t-shirt. Her hair, still gorgeous but bound up, and her athletic shoes, were the only concession to the racquetball game. School was good, she said; next year, she'll start trying out different jobs to see what she wants to do and is good at. I knew about the program, I said; what is she dreaming of?

"I'd like to be a sign interpreter," she shared a little shyly, the way I'd have said, at her age, that I wanted to be an archaeologist. Only, her ambition was a lot more marketable.

"You'd be so good at that," I enthused, "you're such a visual person!"

"Well, we'll see. It depends on how I do on the English test."

She took my breath away, such a young lady, so mature. She's figured life out.

The Fury of Poverty

There were seven of us at the table. The student was eleven, with a pert pageboy and a charming lisp. The social worker was thirtyish and gently male. But the rest of us were middle-aged females.

You couldn't truly paint any of us with an unchanging brush - certainly the speech pathologist, with makeup caked to a mask and perfect bright red nail polish, wouldn't fit into the same slot as I, in my trail-running shoes. But there was an important distinction nevertheless between the school professionals and the parent.

"Lizzie's" grandma had arrived late at the meeting because her husband was late getting the car home. Her hair was long, limp and anything but carefree, the mouth a severe line, the eyes topped by tired, drooping lids. She wore some sort of nondescript navy blue windbreaker; her belly bulged over her gray knit pants, clad in a maroon t-shirt with faded flowers. A stuffed purse emitted frequent rings from her cell phone.

A minute into the first presentation of the evaluation of her granddaughter's academic skills, she said "Grade level. I want the grade level." for the first time.

Anyone who's been in education longer than a year knows that simply getting the grade level is inaccurate. A kid's score on a test indicates only how he or she scored in comparison with all the other kids who took the test. If they scored the same number of points as the median of the kids in the same grade, they're at grade level. So on a writing test, the kid could be way above grade-level skills in organization, and way below grade level in spelling, but still score at grade level.

But grandma had learned that demanding this information was a way to stop educators in their tracks. She is the parent; in today's educational atmosphere, what she asks for, she gets, especially with a child who receives special education services. So nobody argued with her, or tried to explain; everyone supplied the grade level approximation of each test as asked.

Grandma ran the show.

Putatively I was there to help the team formulate middle-school level goals and services.

Actually, I quickly realized, my presence was required so my school knew who we would cope with next year. And eventually I undestood that arguing that the services written into the plan were unrealistic at the middle school level would only inflame conflict. The one time I tried, grandma responded with, "if I don't get what I need (want, I thought privately in response), I'll just take Lizzie somewhere else!"

I suppressed the thought "well, maybe that wouldn't be so bad.." and relaxed. Somehow we'd make it work, like we always do.

As I drove back to my school, though, I didn't think of the services we will provide for Lizzie - who by the way is a charming, hard-working student who will have no trouble whatsoever next year.

I thought about grandma.

At one point, the talk around the table turned to funding, as it always does. Grandma's view: "You're not gonna tell me the school district doesn't have money... look at all those buildings, the schools they've closed that are just being used for storage! They've wasted money, and now they want us to pay!"

And I thought, I bet she voted against 2-C. I bet she assiduously watches the coverage of the tea party movement on Fox; I bet she goes to every rally she can make it to.

Grandma suspects everything about the system. She, like millions, believes that she's been taxed to fund goodies for the ruling class.

And the tragic part? She's right.

Look at the faces of the senators on TV. Don't they look like they have daily facials along with their shaves, at the Senate barber shop we pay for? They wear Armani suits and silk ties the price of Grandma's family daily food budget, for her, her husband, and all seven of the grandkids who live with her.

Grandma's at least sixty, maybe more; but no golden-age-retirement for her. Somebody has to feed, clothe and shelter those kids her progeny made and abandoned. And she's angry, about it all, about the one old car, and the budget that allows for only second hand clothes for her, and no time or money for manicures like that speech pathologist has.

And right now, she can only scare five educators at a granddaughter's staffing meeting.

But watch out.

to Pikes Peak, March 2010

You’re there.
You’re always there, different each day
Like the thoughts of a lover.
You’re a cliché
America’s mountain
Heinlein’s rocket pad
The rich men’s fireworks launch
The tourists’ donut shop
The marathoner’s feat.
Once I saw a father
Children running far ahead
“watch out for mountain lions,” I warned
He smiled. He was right,
You’re a city
Above a city
America’s most ordinary adventure.
No purple on you
And no amber below
Except the veined quartz-gold sleeping.
Waiting.
Every day you measure clouds,
Wear snow still and flumed,
The rails, curved, like an off-center necklace
Set ‘round a woman’s hip.
Red plagioclase
Warms you – the Spanish named you
For their generous goddess.
You’re a cliché.
You’re beautiful.